Toll the Hounds

by Steven Erikson

  Now see what you’ve done.

  She hurried after her brainless sister.

  Skintick wanted to weep, but he knew enough to save that for later, for that final stumble through, into some future place when all this was over and done with, when they could each return to a normal life, an almost peaceful life.

  He had never been one for prayers, especially not to Mother Dark, whose heart was cruel, whose denial was an ever-bleeding wound in the Tiste Andii. Yet he prayed none the less. Not to a god or goddess, not to some unknown force at ease with the gift of mercy. No, Skintick prayed for peace.

  A world of calm.

  He did not know if such a world existed, anywhere. He did not know if one such as he deserved that world. Paradise belonged to the innocent.

  Which was why it was and would ever remain . . . empty.

  And that is what makes it a paradise.

  At the outer doors, the slaughter continued. Kedeviss saw Nenanda smiling, and had she the time, she would have slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to shake the glee from his eyes. There was nothing glorious in this. The fools came on and on, crushing each other in their need, and she and Nenanda killed them one by one by one.

  Oh, fighting against absurd odds was something they were used to; something they did damnably well. That was no source of pride. Desperate defence demanded expedience and little else. And the Tiste Andii were, above all else, an expedient people.

  And so blood spilled down, bodies crumpled at their feet, only to be dragged clear by the next ones to die.

  She killed her twentieth worshipper, and he was no different from the nineteenth, no different from the very first one, back there on the steps.

  Blood like rain. Blood like tears. It was all so pointless.

  Nenanda began laughing.

  Moments later, the worshippers changed their tactics.

  With frenzied screams they pushed forward en masse, and those Nenanda and Kedeviss mortally wounded were simply heaved ahead, dying, flailing shields of flesh and bone. As the mob drove onward, the two Tiste Andii were forced from the threshold—

  And the attackers poured in with triumphant shrieks.

  Nenanda stopped laughing.

  Nimander was at the inner doorway when he heard the savage cries behind him. Spinning round, he saw Nenanda and Kedeviss retreating under an onslaught of maddened figures.

  ‘Skintick!’

  His cousin shifted Clip’s body on to Nimander’s shoulders, then turned and, drawing his sword once more, plunged into the mêlée.

  Nimander staggered into the passageway.

  Why? Why are we doing this? We deliver Clip to the Dying God, like a damned sacrifice. Ahead, he saw Desra and Aranatha approaching the far end, where it seemed there was another chamber. The altar room – where he awaits us— ‘Stop!’ he shouted.

  Only Desra glanced back.

  Aranatha strode within.

  The reek of burning kelyk assailed Nimander and he stumbled as he moved forward beneath the slack, dragging weight of Clip’s unconscious form. The raw glyphs swarmed on the walls to either side. Projecting busts of some past deity showed battered faces, sections crushed and others sheared off by recent demolition. Lone eyes leered down. Half-mouths smiled with a jester’s crook. Passing by one after another.

  Trembling, Nimander forced himself forward. He saw Desra stride after Aranatha.

  The glyphs began weeping, and all at once he felt as if time itself was dissolving. Sudden blindness, the terrible sounds of fighting behind him diminishing, as if pulled far away, until only the rush of blood remained, a storm in his head.

  Through which, faintly and then rising, came a child’s voice. Singing softly.

  Seerdomin emerged from Night, squinted against the mid-morning glare. Silver clouds ahead, heaped above the barrow like the sky’s detritus. Rain slanted down on the mound.

  Tulwar in his hand, he hurried on, boots slipping in the salt-crusted mud of the track.

  She had gone out, alone.

  Spinnock Durav – the only friend he had left – had professed his love for her. But he had not understood – yes, she would refuse his help. But such refusal must be denied. He should have comprehended that.

  Gods below, this was not Seerdomin’s fight. She was not his fight.

  Yet he found himself driven on, cold with fear, feverish with dread, and everything that he saw around him seemed to scream its details, as if even the mundane truths could burn, could sting like acid in his eyes. Ruts and broken spokes, potsherds, pools of opaque water, exposed roots like the hackles of the earth – each one ferociously demanding his attention. We are as it is, they seemed to shout, we are all there is! We are—

  Not his fight, but Spinnock had not understood. He was Tiste Andii. He was a creature of centuries and what was avoided one day could be addressed later – decades, millennia, ages later. In their eyes, nothing changed.

  Nothing could change. They were a fallen people. The dream of getting back up had faded to dust.

  She had gone out. Alone. Out where the conspirators strutted in the light of day, insanely plotting the return of suffering. Where they abused the sanctuary of an indifferent god. Maybe she was now back among her kind – if that was true, then Spinnock Durav deserved to hear the truth of that.

  A rat slithered into the ditch a few strides ahead. He drew closer to the filth of the encampment, its stench so foul not even the rain could wash it away.

  Would he be challenged? He hoped so. If the conspirators hid themselves, he might have trouble rooting them out. And if she decided to hide, well, he would have to kick through every decrepit hut and shelter, into every leaking tent and rust-seized wagon.

  Birdsong drifted down from the trees of the slope on the opposite side of the camp, the sound startlingly clear. Tendrils of smoke from rain-dampened hearths undulated upward, each one solid as a serpent in Seerdomin’s eyes. He was, he realized, walking into their nest.

  But Spinnock, you need not do this, you need not even know of this. This is a human affair, and if she is willing then yes, I will drag her free of it. Back to you. One can be saved and that should be enough.

  He wondered if the Redeemer ever saw things that way. Taking one soul into his embrace with a thousand yearning others looking on – but no, he did not choose, did not select one over another. He took them all.

  Seerdomin realized he did not care either way. This god was not for him. Redemption had never been his reason for kneeling before that barrow. I was lonely. I thought he might be the same. Damn you, High Priestess, why didn’t you just leave me alone?

  Not my mess.

  Spinnock, you owe me, and you will never know. I will say nothing – let this rain wash the blood from my hands—

  He had begun this march half drunk, but nothing of that remained. Now, everything was on fire.

  Reaching the slope of the camp’s main avenue, he began the ascent. The rain was fine as mist, yet he was quickly soaked through, steam rising from his forearms. The ground gave queasily beneath his boots with every step. He arrived at the crest leaning far forward, scrabbling in his haste.

  Straightening, something flashed into his vision. He heard a snap, a crunch that exploded in his head, and then nothing.

  Gradithan stood over the sprawled form of Seerdomin, staring down at the smashed, bloodied face. Monkrat crept closer and crouched down beside the body.

  ‘He lives. He will drown in his blood if I do not roll him over, Urdo. What is your wish?’

  ‘Yes, push him over – I want him alive, for now at least. Take his weapons, bind his limbs, then drag him to the Sacred Tent.’

  Gradithan licked his lips, tasting the staleness of dried kelyk. He wanted more, fresh, bitter and sweet, but he needed his mind. Sharp, awake, aware of everything.

  As Monkrat directed two of his Urdomen to attend to the Seerdomin, Gradithan set off for the Sacred Tent. Sanctified ground, yes, but only temporary. Soon, they would have the barrow itself. The bar
row, and the ignorant godling within it.

  Along the track, the once-worshippers of the Redeemer knelt as he passed. Some moaned in the dregs of the night’s dance. Others stared at the mud in front of their knees, heads hanging, brown slime drooling down from their gaping mouths. Oh, this might seem like corruption, but Gradithan wasn’t interested in such misconceptions.

  The Dying God was more important than Black Coral and its morose overlords. More important than the Redeemer and his pathetic cult. The Dying God’s song was a song of pain, and was not pain the curse of mortality?

  He had heard of another cult, a foreign one, devoted to someone called the Crippled God.

  Perhaps, Monkrat had ventured that morning, there is a trend.

  There was something blasphemous in that observation, and Gradithan reminded himself that he would have to have the mage beaten – but not yet. Gradithan needed Monkrat, at least for now.

  He entered the Sacred Tent.

  Yes, she was still dancing, writhing now on the earthen floor, too exhausted perhaps to stand, yet the sensual motions were still powerful enough to take away Gradithan’s breath. It did not matter any more that she had been a Child of the Dead Seed. No one could choose their parents, after all. Besides, she had been adopted now. By the Dying God, by the blessed pain and ecstasy it delivered.

  Let her dance on, yes, until the gate was forced open.

  Gradithan lifted his head, sniffed the air – oh, the blood was being spilled, the sacrifice fast closing on the threshold. Close now.

  The Dying God bled. Mortal followers drank that blood. Then spilled it out, transformed, so that the Dying God could take it once more within himself. This was the secret truth behind all blood sacrifice. The god gives and the mortal gives back. All the rest . . . nothing more than ornate dressing, nothing more than obfuscation.

  Die, my distant friends. Die in your multitudes. We are almost there.

  ‘You are dying.’

  Seerdomin opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face stared down at him.

  ‘You are bleeding into your brain, Segda Travos. They mean to abuse you. Torture you with terrible sights – the Urdo named Gradithan believes you a traitor. He wants you to suffer, but you will deny him that pleasure, for you are dying.’

  ‘Who – what . . .’

  ‘I am Itkovian. I am the Redeemer.’

  ‘I – I am sorry.’

  The man smiled and Seerdomin could see how that smile belonged to these gentle features, the kind eyes. Such compassion was . . . ‘Wrong’.

  ‘Perhaps it seems that way, but you are strong – your spirit is very strong, Segda Travos. You believe I am without true compassion. You believe I embrace suffering out of selfish need, to feed a hunger, an addiction.’ Itkovian’s soft eyes shifted away. ‘Perhaps you are right.’

  Seerdomin slowly sat up. And saw a domed sky that glittered as if with millions upon millions of stars, a solid cluster vying for every space, so that every splinter and whorl of darkness seemed shrunken, in retreat. The vision made his head spin and he quickly looked down. And found he was kneeling on a ground composed entirely of coins. Copper, tin, brass, a few sprinkles of silver, fewer still of gold. Gems gleamed here and there. ‘We are,’ he said in an awed whisper, ‘within your barrow.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Itkovian.

  Seerdomin shot the god a quick glance. ‘You did not know . . .’

  ‘Is knowing necessary, Segda Travos?’

  ‘I no longer use that name. Segda Travos is dead. I am Seerdomin.’

  ‘Warrior Priest of the Pannion Seer. I see the warrior within you, but not the priest.’

  ‘It seems I am not much of a warrior any more,’ Seerdomin observed. ‘I was coming to save her.’

  ‘And now, my friend, you must fight her.’

  ‘What?’

  Itkovian pointed.

  Seerdomin twisted round where he knelt. A storm was building, seeping up into the dome of offerings, and he saw how the blackness engulfed those blazing stars, drowning them one by one. Beneath the savage churning clouds there was a figure. Dancing. And with each wild swing of an arm more midnight power spun outward, up into the growing stormcloud. She seemed to be a thousand or more paces away, yet grew larger by the moment.

  He could see her mouth, gaping like a pit, from which vile liquid gushed out, splashing down, spraying as she twirled.

  Salind. Gods, what has happened to you?

  ‘She wants me,’ Itkovian said. ‘It is her need, you see.’

  ‘Her need?’

  ‘Yes. For answers. What more can a god fear, but a mortal demanding answers?’

  ‘Send her away!’

  ‘I cannot. So, warrior, will you defend me?’

  ‘I cannot fight that!’

  ‘Then, my friend, I am lost.’

  Salind came closer, and as she did so she seemed to lose focus in Seerdomin’s eyes, her limbs smearing the air, her body blurring from one position to the next. Her arms seemed to multiply, and in each one, he now saw, she held a weapon. Brown-stained iron, knotted wood trailing snags of hair, daggers of obsidian, scythes of crimson bronze.

  Above her stained, weeping mouth, her eyes blazed with insane fire.

  ‘Redeemer,’ whispered Seerdomin.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Answer me one question. I beg you.’

  ‘Ask.’

  And he faced the god. ‘Are you worth it?’

  ‘Am I worth the sacrifice you must make? No, I do not think so.’

  ‘You will not beg to be saved?’

  Itkovian smiled. ‘Will you?’

  No. I never have. He rose to his feet, found that the tulwar remained in his hand. He hefted the weapon and eyed Salind. Can I defy her need? Can I truly stand against that? ‘If not for your humility, Redeemer, I would walk away. If not for your . . . uncertainty, your doubts, your humanity.’

  And, awaiting no reply from the god, he set out into her path.

  The sudden hush within the Scour Tavern finally penetrated Spinnock Durav’s drunken haze. Blinking, he tilted his head, and found himself looking up at his Lord.

  Who said, ‘It is time, my friend.’

  ‘You now send me away?’ Spinnock asked.

  ‘Yes. I now send you away.’

  Spinnock Durav reeled upright. His face was numb. The world seemed a sickly place, and it wanted in. He drew a deep breath.

  ‘My request pains you – why?’

  He could have told him then. He could have spoken of this extraordinary blessing of love. For a human woman. He could have told Anomander Rake of his failure, and in so doing he would have awakened the Son of Darkness to his sordid plight.

  Had he done all of this, Anomander Rake would have reached a hand to rest light on his shoulder, and he would have said, Then you must stay, my friend. For love, you must stay – go to her, now. Now, Spinnock Durav. It is the last gift within our reach. The last – did you truly believe I would stand in the way of that? That I would decide that my need was greater?

  Did you think I could do such a thing, when I come to you here and now because of my own love? For you? For our people?

  Go to her, Spinnock Durav. Go.

  But Spinnock Durav said nothing. Instead, he bowed before his Lord. ‘I shall do as you ask.’

  And Anomander Rake said, ‘It is all right to fail, friend. I do not demand the impossible of you. Do not weep at that moment. For me, Spinnock Durav, find a smile to announce the end. Fare well.’

  *

  The killing seemed without end. Skintick’s sword arm ached, the muscles lifeless and heavy, and still they kept coming on – faces twisted eager and desperate, expressions folding round mortal wounds as if sharp iron was a blessing touch, an exquisite gift. He stood between Kedeviss and Nenanda, and the three had been driven back to the second set of doors. Bodies were piled in heaps, filling every space of the chamber’s floor, where blood and fluids formed thick pools. The walls on all sides were splashed high.

&n
bsp; He could see daylight through the outer doors – the morning was dragging on. Yet from the passage at their backs there had been . . . nothing. Were they all dead in there? Bleeding out on the altar stone? Or had they found themselves somehow trapped, or lost with no answers – was Clip now dead, or had he been delivered into the Dying God’s hands?

  The attackers were running out of space – too many corpses – and most now crawled or even slithered into weapon range.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ gasped Kedeviss. ‘Skintick – go – we can hold them off now. Go – find out if . . .’

  If we’re wasting our time. I understand. He pulled back, one shoulder cracking into the frame of the entranceway. Whirling, he set off along the corridor. When horror stalked the world, it seemed that every grisly truth was laid bare. Life’s struggle ever ended in failure. No victory was pure, or clean. Triumph was a comforting lie and always revealed itself to be ephemeral, hollow and short-lived. This is what assailed the spirit when coming face to face with horror.

  And so few understood that. So few . . .

  He clawed through foul smoke, heard his own heartbeat slowing, dragging even as his breaths faded. What – what is happening? Blindness. Silence, an end to all motion. Skintick sought to push forward, only to find that desire was empty when without will, and when there was no strength, will itself was a conceit. Glyphs flowed down like black rain, on his face, his neck and his hands, streaming hot as blood.

  Somehow, he fought onward, his entire body dragging behind him as if half dead, an impediment, a thing worth forgetting. He wanted to pull free of it, even as he understood that his flesh was all that kept him alive – yet he yearned for dissolution, and that yearning was growing desperate.

  Wait. This is not how I see the world. This is not the game I choose to play – I will not believe in this abject . . . surrender.